The Man in the Moss

            'I thought you might,' said Ashton.

Moira felt weary and ineffectual, and she had a headache. Walking, head down, into the Rectory drive, she was speared by lights.

            Cathy parked her father's VW Golf crookedly in front of the garage.

            'How is he?'

            'He's OK,' Cathy said quickly, unlocking the front door. 'I'm sorry, I didn't leave you a key, did I? I'm hopelessly inefficient.'

            About her father - Moira saw she was playing this down.

            Cathy unloaded plastic carrier bags and her long university scarf on to the kitchen worktops, all stark, white butcher's-shop tiling. 'I went into Manchester afterwards. Had to get away somewhere crowded, to think. Got loads of cold things from Marks and Sparks. You don't mind, do you? Pop sees to the cooking as a rule. I'm a disaster in the kitchen. Did you get to see Ma Wagstaff?'

            'Yes,' said Moira.

            'Did she talk to you?'

            'No,' Moira said. 'I'm afraid not.'

            Then Cathy discovered the sugar bowl was empty and went into the pantry, the little room under the stairs, for a new bag.

            'Oh,' she said. "The little scumbags.'

            'Huh?'

            Moira peered over her shoulder. Cathy was holding a brick. There was a small window in the pantry and the brick had clearly been used to smash it.

            'Little bastards,' Cathy said. 'You know, this never used to happen. I know people say that all the time ... "Oh, things were different when I was a kid and you could get in the cinema for sixpence. None of this vandalism in those days, kids had respect." But it's true. Even - what? - six months ago it was true in Bridelow. They did have respect.'

            Cathy put the brick down on the floor. Now there's graffiti in the toilets at the parish hall. A week or two ago somebody had a ... defecated on the seat inside the lych-gate. Can you believe that? In Bridelow?'

            'You better check the house,' Moira said.

            Cathy had a cursory look around the downstairs rooms. Everything seemed to be in order. 'Little sods. Everybody knows Pop's in hospital.' She looked at Moira. 'Oh. Yes. That's another thing. They're sending him to a convalescent home.'

            'I thought it wasn't too serious.'

            'Coronary,' Cathy said despondently. 'That's serious. They're sending him - committing him is how he sees it - to this Church nursing home down in Shropshire. At least a month. Which means Joel's got to move in here.'

            'With you?'

            'You're joking,' Cathy said. 'Even if I could bear to have him in the house, he's much too proper to countenance it. No, I'll go back to Oxford. Come up at weekends and see Pop. I mean, I expect you'll be wanting to be off, won't you?'

            Moira said. 'Look, you got any cardboard in the garage or somewhere? We can block up this window.'

            'Never mind, Alf Becket'll fix it tomorrow.'

            Moira said, 'Cathy ... um ... something bad's happened.'

Because of the Post Office's strict security regulations, Milly Gill's front door had two steel bolts and a fancy double lock, which she'd always thought was damn stupid in a place like Bridelow. Tonight, though, first time ever, Milly was glad to turn the key twice over and slide the big bolts. Even though she knew there were some things no locks could keep out.

            The urgent banging on the door shook her. Willie Wagstaff never used the knocker. Willie would beat out his own personal tattoo with his fingers.

            'Oh, Mother,' Milly Gill said, clutching her arms over her breast. 'I'm not going to be up to this.'

            It was an hour since the doctor'd had Ma taken away, Across the Moss. He'd said there might have to be a post-mortem, probably no more than a formality, it was most likely natural causes. But if there was reason to think she might have fallen accidentally, there'd have to be a public inquest.

            Pity Bridelow didn't have a resident doctor any more; this was an Asian gentleman from Across the Moss who couldn't be expected to understand. Milly had pleaded with him not to let them cut Ma up if there was any way it could be avoided. It was important that all of Ma's bits should be returned to Bridelow for burial, not tissue and stuff left in some hospital waste bin.

            More crashing at the from door.

            'Who is it?' Milly shouted. Didn't recognize her own voice, it sounded that feeble.

            'It's me. Alf.'

            Milly tut-tutted at her cowardice. Why she should think there might be something abroad because something that happened to hundreds of pensioners every week had happened to Ma Wagstaff ...

            She undid the bolts and turned the key twice. 'I'm sorry, Alf. Not like me to be nervy.'

            But, if anything, Alf Beckett looked worse than she felt. There was a streetlamp outside the door, a converted gas lamp with an ice-blue bulb. Its light made Alf look quite ill, eyes like keyholes.

            'Milly,' he said. 'We're in t'shit.'

            'Come in, luv,' Milly said. Her responsibility now, this sort of problem, keeping up community morale. She sat Alf down on the floral settee. He was ashen.

            'Now then, come on,' Milly said, it's all right. We'll get over this. We've had bad patches before.'

            'No ...' Alf shook his head. 'Listen ...'

            'It's my fault,' Milly said. 'We always left too much to poor old Ma. We thought she were immortal. Thought we could sit back, everybody getting on with their lives, foreign holidays, videos. Didn't seem to matter like it used to. And then when Ma started getting gloomy, we all thought it were just her age. Even me, daft cow. And now everything's happened at once, and it's shaken us. But we'll be all right, honest, luv.'

            She got up to put the kettle on. 'I've sent Willie to t'Man for a pint. Life's got to go on, Alf. Just means we'll have to have a bit of a get-together. Soon as possible. Sort this lad Joel Beard out for a start. Then we'll see what else we've got to tackle. Mrs Horridge, that's another thing ...'

            'Milly!' Alf Beckett's hearth brush moustache looked bent and spiky. 'Police've come.'

            'Eh? Because of Ma? Have they found summat?'

            'No, no listen to me, woman, for Christ's sake.' Alf sat up on the couch, hands clasped so tightly together that his knuckles were whiter than his cheeks, it's t'grave. They're coming to dig Matt's grave up.'

            In the narrow doorway to the back kitchen, Milly froze, filling it.

            Alf said, 'Some bugger's told t'coppers as t'bogman's in theer.'

            Milly felt sick. All churned up inside. Ma gone, the Rector in hospital. And her at the wrong time of life to cope with it all. She covered up her face with her hands and looked at him through her fingers.

            'Lord,' she whispered. 'What've we done, Alf? What've we done in Brid'lo to deserve this?'

Cathy said to Moira, 'If Pop hears about this, he's going to do something stupid.'